


Missing

by Soda_Pop



Series: Short Ego Writings [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Guilt, Heavy Angst, I'm Going to Hell, Missing Persons, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:36:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soda_Pop/pseuds/Soda_Pop
Summary: Henrik has gone missing, and Chase is taking it pretty hard.(Not necessarily a ship writing, but if you want to think of them as a couple that's fine)





	Missing

Things were so quiet now.

 

Ever since he disappeared, the world went black and white. Like every drop of color was removed and replaced with a thick layer of depression.

 

Everything reminded Chase of him. Everything was somehow attached to him. Even if he made a comment about that poster 4 years ago, he couldn't look at it without being sent into a deep reverie. Just a sick feeling of nausea, knowing that he was out there somewhere. God knows what could be happening to him. Maybe he's being tortured. Maybe he's dead. But he would never know.

 

He ended up throwing that poster away.

 

Others were worried to, Chase knew he wasn't alone. When it happened, they went to him first. Comforted him. Reassured him. They said they would find him. They said they would look.

 

The first week, Chase ended up leaving his flat at 4 am and scanning through the streets of London. He went to their usual meet up places. He looked in between every building. He asked the hospital if they knew anything. Yet they were all dead ends.

 

There were days he hoped. Just squeezing his eyes shut and wishing it could all go back to normal.

 

There were days he cried. Whispering Henrik's name under his breath as he sobbed, curled up into a ball.

 

Then there were days he pretended. Pretended that it didn't hurt. Forging optimism. Saying to the others nonchalantly, "He'll come back."

 

It's been around half a year now. No sign, not a trace. Every moment of every day, he never stopped thinking of where he might be. Of what could be happening. He couldn't even relax at this point, because every time he sat down, or opened a book, or made tea, there was this voice in his head, yelling at him that he couldn't relax. That he needed to get out of the house and search.

 

And he felt guilty. Because he knew he couldn't do anything.

 

He was powerless.


End file.
